Will You Remember Me?
by Armadilloi
Summary: Read by 2/28. It will be deleted.
1. Do You Remember Me?

A/N: This is an experiment in Charah. I'm trying. This will be only 2 chapts at the most. Taking a breather from some other projects.

I don't own Chuck. If I did, things would be different. This half is kind of the inverse Pandora's Box, except for the next chapter.

* * *

It had been sunny that day. An incredible California spring day when neither of them had to work and breakfast on the beach on a Tuesday morning seemed like a neat idea. He'd been so easy to please, and pleasing him had been her pleasure.

She picked him up at his apartment, reveling in his easy embrace. He was still not totally comfortable with PDAs out in the open but he figured Casey would approve – for the cover.

'Sarah, I know you super secret CIA agents get 'get outta tickets free' cards any everything but some of us mere mortals missed the day they issued 'immortality cards', in fact I'm pretty sure they told me I didn't qualify. So please slow down.'

'Chuck, this is my only release, my only freedom in life, don't make me give it up, please?'

He was sooo whipped. He just hunkered down in his seat and smiled at her. "Go for it, babe." Fuck Casey. If anyone were listening they'd write it off to the heat of the moment. Or fear. Yeah, he was good at emoting that one. He'd never, ever gone this fast riding in something that had no wings.

They pulled into their favorite beachfront restaurant, a diner really, and got their usual to go. She drove to 'their place' on the beach and she'd raced him to it. She won easily as she always did. She'd left him carrying the Styrofoam boxes containing their breakfast. Hey, in the CIA it wasn't how you won, it was only the victory that counted.

She slid into their spot like a Yankee stealing third. "SAFE" she thought triumphantly.

She spread the blanket out, smoothing it flat as could and turned on her knees to tease Chuck about his loss again.

Something hit her in the head, hard, and her laughter died on her lips as she slipped into the arms of Morpheus.

* * *

They hadn't raped her. It had been a straight up robbery. Gangbangers and druggies preyed on the early-morning beach goers, the hunters looking for last scores before returning to their lairs. It was becoming more and more of a news item and less and less of a rarity.

For 4 days she'd been unconscious.

For four days Chuck Bartowski was still a part of her world, still smiling, still joking, still avoiding PDAs, still allowing her the freedom of her release.

And on the fifth day it all turned to shit.

A body was found, partially decomposed several miles north. He'd just been thrown away. Dumped like the morning's trash. He hadn't gone easily and from the bruises on his hands and knuckles, the medical examiner said he'd given out a lot of pain to someone. John Casey had identified the body, made a lot simpler because of a laceration Chuck had gotten at the BuyMore while he and Casey had been carrying a plasma TV.

She cried the entire 5th day. John Casey came by to say goodbye since they were closing down the operation. No sense two agents babysitting a corpse (he didn't say that, he just thought it real loud). He hugged her awkwardly and handed her a stack of disks. "Here's as much of him as I could save for you, Sarah. I'm sorry. I'll miss him. And you. "

And on the 6th day she cried. Ellie Bartowski came and they cried together. A sister who'd lost her baby brother and a broken spy who'd lost her almost-lover. She loved him. Had for some time. And now it hurt. She'd never told him. Not once.

On the 7th day, Ellie Bartowski came to see her again. They were having a memorial for Chuck and were scattering his ashes at his beach. She'd gotten a friendly attending to look the other way while she took her out for the ceremony. After the ceremony Sarah Walker disappeared, never again to be seen in Los Angeles. Ellie Bartowski would spend a lot of money trying to find her but not a piece of evidence suggesting she'd even existed could be found. She married Devon and moved to a new place. One without the ghosts.

* * *

Washington, DC

A CIA agent no longer physically able to do field work. She was considered emotionally unstable and was offered a desk job in D.C. or a medical pension. She chose the pension and met with General Beckman.

"Miss Walker, it's been an honor serving with you. I'm only sorry the circumstances could not have been more favorable. Rest assured, the bodies of those responsible for killing Mr. Bartowski and assaulting you will be turning up in dumpsters and landfills for quite a few weeks to come. John Casey is an angry man, Ms Walker. A very angry man."

* * *

Arlington, VA

For 5 months she did nothing. She was legally Sarah Walker. She kept the name to honor him.

She sat at home in her condo that the CIA had given her. Being #1 had some perks and apparently those extended into retirement. She started to paint again. She'd painted for years as a way of relieving stress. It relaxed her then, it didn't now. Now she painted angry seascapes, ravaged landscapes, and cities on fire, people in pain. Her CIA shrink said she was moving away from reality and needed to find something to ground her to this plain of existence. Or she'd just go away some day leaving a hollow body breathing on autopilot.

"So, we can be 100% certain that she's not hiding something? That she knows something we couldn't get out of her in hypno-sessions?

"General, the last time she saw Chuck Bartowski alive was on that beach. He is dead, General. The condition of the body found would make identification difficult. Agent Walker was never told about the damage and 'missing parts' of the body as a kindness. Major Casey identified the body from some recent injuries the intersect had sustained at his place of work in his presence. It was Charles Bartowski's body. No head, no hands, but the injury to the arm, the laceration confirmed by Major Casey, 100% certain, General."

That was fine. She had run her own DNA tests. She'd found that the DNA markers matched that of Bartowski. The human intersect was dead.

"This matter is closed then, Doctor. Thank you for your time and expertise. We will curtail all surveillance of Ms. Walker. Our assets can be better employed elsewhere.

* * *

She sold the condo. Told the few friends she'd made since retirement that summer in D.C. was just too hot for her and she was going to travel and maybe find a place she'd like to live and a job that wouldn't cause too many of the crippling headaches she'd been subject to since the… since she retired. The doctors said it was stress and would probably go away with time. She didn't think so.

She quit driving for the night after crossing over the Mackinaw Bridge. She drove into a little town at the northern terminus of the bridge, St. Ignace. A tourist trap, but nice in its own way. She dropped by the visitors center and pulled some brochures on lake front rentals. It was October so she was sure vacancies would be common and rates low. She was on a budget now, no CIA credit cards or slush funds.

She took her laptop out and reviewed her emails. Spam. Offers from the Bank of Nigeria, Microsoft Lottery, and the usual one that so tickled her fancy offering listings on "True Love Dot Com" for single females. She read down through the listing of available men but didn't see much there that would compare to what she'd had. She sighed. Maybe someday. In the meantime, this looked like a fine place to call home until the wanderlust struck her again.

* * *

Last Hurrah Bar & Grill  
St. Ignace, MI

Charlie Malone gently pushed the last of the old geezers out of the door of the 'Last Hurrah' bar he'd bought with his life savings and government backed loans he'd applied for after being discharged from the Army. His short hair, lanky build and quick smile had made him an instant hit with both the locals and the 'summer girls'. But he'd always just smile at them, give them a free drink and a turn on the dance floor and then ignore them.

The more insecure of the rejectees tried to start the rumor that he was gay but the occasional blonde lucky enough to get past his screens and spend time with him after work would testify to the contrary. He just didn't sleep around. Ever. Incredible kisser but refused to do much else. It was like he was in mourning or something. So the tales of Charlie Malone usually contained suggestions of a lost love, a traumatic military experience, nothing even close to the truth. Tall tales were not tall enough for his truth.

St. Ignace was not high on his list of places to drop anchor but it beat the crap out of California. There were no memories here, just memories to make. The U.P. was a lot like northern California, just that the surfer jargon was replaced with almost Canadian syntax and pacing, ay? He fired up his laptop and checked his email. He went to his usual first stop, True Love Dot Com and scanned the available ladies to see if his dream girl might miraculously appear. No, not tonight. Someday perhaps but not tonight. His phantom lover was out there, he was sure of it, just as he was certain that no matter what, he would keep looking and waiting.

* * *

Sarah Walker found that St. Ignace had a subtle charm, like someone else she knew, it just grew on her. Maybe she'd found the place called 'home' the shrinks said she needed to find. The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. After talking to the locals, she'd gone down to the "lower peninsula" and traded in the Porsche on something more useful, something big with 4-wheel drive and the power to stand up to the Michigan winters, when the gales came off the lake and turned the roads to inches of ice. She was looking forward to the challenge of winter driving and one of the local galleries had been showing her paintings and so she just might have a source of income. She decided that she'd 'winter over' in St. Ignace and if things still looked bleak, she head elsewhere in the spring..

As she drove over the bridge and down into St. Ignace she passed a little bar and decided to stop for a beer. It'd been a long time since she'd had one and it had been a hard, long day. It was his birthday. Happy Birthday, Chuck. I love you, baby.

She knew if she had one she'd drink the place dry so she skipped the idea of the bar and drove on to her rented lakefront house. Some other time.

* * *

Charlie Malone was having a fine time of it. He'd imported an Irish band for the last of the tourist weeks hoping to squeeze some more money out of them. The "southies" were packing up the lake homes, winterizing and getting ready to go south until spring. Locals called them snowbirds. First hint of snow and they migrated and took their money with them. And it was his birthday. He was 30. And he was alone.

The band's lead singer was a gorgeous blonde, a Galway girl with the delicious lilting accent of that region and a singing voice that would melt the hearts of any male who heard it.

Even though he couldn't understand the lyrics, "Harry's Song" broke his heart. And when they'd segued into "Do You Remember Me?" he took a fifth of Irish Mist off the shelf and a clean glass and went back to his office.

It had been 9 months without word. Nine months without the sun, without light in his darkness, without air in his lungs. Nine months. They'd agreed to six. After six months Casey said they would have quit looking. After six months the surveillance would be terminated. After six months he could resurface and resume his life, although with considerable changes. He couldn't contact Ellie, for example. Ever. And Ellie had agreed. Anything to keep her little brother safe, even if he was being cut out of her life forever. Anything. Including pulling Chuck's medical records and replacing them with those of a homeless man about the same age and build who'd overdosed. It was Devon who'd literally used a hacksaw to remove the head, hands and feet of the corpse. Casey took it out to the place it would be discovered and shot it full of holes. Just like the gangbangers would do.

After six months, Sarah Walker would contact him and they could begin a new. But she hadn't contacted him. No one had. He'd been cut adrift. He was out of the loop. Not knowing was the worst. Had she gone back to Bryce? Gone deep cover? Or didn't she want to join him? It did mean losing her world and maybe she didn't think he was worth it.

* * *

Sarah Walker hadn't been told of any of the plan. Her role was the most critical if Chuck Bartowski was to survive the sanction placed on him with the successful advent of the new intersect. The NSA was not going to take any chances with security. Dead men told no secrets. The Bitch Beckman had ordered Chuck killed. The genuine spontaneity of her reaction was critical to the success of the operation.

She'd been very genuine. Casey had raised an eyebrow and asked him point blank if he'd slept with his handler. He hadn't so this confirmed what he'd already expected. She was totally compromised. She should have asked for reassignment.

The plan was for John Casey to email Agent Sarah Walker and take her to dinner about 6 months after Chuck's "death" assuming they were both in-country and not on assignment. After catching up, he would hand her an envelope and leave. In the envelope were an email and web address and a 'suggestion' that she join the website and consider retirement and relocation for a change.

Unfortunately, she'd been medically retired. He hadn't struck her that hard but she'd taken an emotional shot as well. She'd been declared emotionally unstable by the CIA, offered a desk job with the NAS but had declined. She took retirement. She'd succumbed to her wanderlust and had been gone before he could make contact. Shit. Sarah Walker was off the grid. He had no way to contact her.

* * *

A knock at the door. The blonde from the band opened the door holding her own bottle of some beer that never sold. Charlie wasn't really in the mood for company.

"H'lo, Charlie-lad. Why so sad? 'Tis your birthday and ye should be ongoing glad to have it since t'weren't long ago, rumor has it, ye were doubtful of anoother, s'truth to tell." When he boiled down the accent (for example 'birth' came out 'bay-erth') to content he felt a chill. The M1911 was in his hand and pointed at her head, unwavering.

"Who are you? Who do you work for? Fulcrum? The NSA?"

She laughed. "I work as a singer in an Irish band that ye yerself has hired. I only meant that people say ye were in that Afghan place and moost have some terr'ble mem'ries since ye partake naught of the local ladies, none but the pales, so I thought I'd come in and see if yer of a mind to try a pale Irish lass, Charlie m'lad. I would deem it a great honor, Charlie, if you would remember me."

It had been nine months and her songs that night had slain him. He let go and pretended that Maire was someone else with those same laughing blue eyes and all-day-sucker-I-won-the-lottery smile. And for a wee bit of time, he could pretend and banish the dark and breathe the air. But just for a wee bit. And when he awoke she was gone. The note read "Charlie, she's out there, the one ye seek. Find her, Charlie, for ye have much to give. Find your Sarah."

He never knew her last name. When he pulled the contracts and contacted the booking agent no one could give him a number. The band had returned to Ireland. He wouldn't book them again.

He didn't want to think of the hurt he caused when he called her "his Sarah" for how else would she have known the name?


	2. Hold On

_A/N: This is an experiment in doing a sympathetic and loving Sarah Walker. I love reading about her but I'm damned if I can write her. Oh, well, and if the Irish didn't come out well last chapter it's your own damned fault. You can't do the Irish in English…haha.. and no, I didn't intend it to be in iambic pentameter or to rhyme, just kinda flew out of me fingers again. I don't care if you like this I want to know if Sarah is believable. Kinda like therapy. Yech. I don't own them._

_Oh, yeah, someone said I couldn't do it in two. You were right. Looks like a trifecta and it's not gonna happen tonight. I'd been talking again with Jack, Jim and Jose and well, we feel the need to go drown worms and crickets and listen to the wookelahrs stalk nutrea.  


* * *

_John Casey was on leave, a real John Casey vacation and not in Afghanistan or Iraq, some place much, much worse: Burbank, California. He hated California for a multitude of things, revering it only for being the burial place of his hero, RR. He was in search of Chuck and Sarah, via his sister. He had a moral obligation to correct what he'd fubared.

He found Ellie and Devon without any problem at all. He just looked in the phone book.

"John Casey!" Elliejoy unbound. "It's so good to see you."

"Hey, Ellie, I'm on a stopover and I thought I'd stop over and see if you knew how to get in touch with any of our old friends from the apartment days. Y'know, Lester, Jeff, Morgan?"

She knew where he was coming from instantly. "No, John, 'fraid that's a dead end. Neither Devon or I have seen any of the old BuyMore crowd since, well, since Chuck died. They just sort of drifted apart. Chuck was the glue and now he's gone." She still teared up, even knowing he was still alive, somewhere.

"Ellie, no matter where Chuck is, he's safe and happy, you know that." He tried for that sonorous ministerial tone. Allusions to heaven, angels, etc. It had been almost a year since he "left". John felt enormous guilt. It was his plan that had cratered.

She fixed him with the MK 1 Hairy Eyeball as Chuck referred to it. "Is he, John?"

"They never made the rendezvous. And it's my fault. She took medical retirement and left a mere month before I was going to contact her. That was the plan, six months. I never got to have that dinner and pass on the information. Ellie, she thinks he's dead and God only knows what Chuck's thinking. You know how insecure he was about her feelings. Ellie, he won't break protocol. He won't contact us because he believes it will put all of us in danger, and he's right, for now. And we made no arrangements for a scenario like this. It was supposed to go like clockwork but she retired and moved. No forwarding. She kept the name, Sarah Walker but that's the only concrete piece of info I have on her."

"John, the government moves on paper, who gets her pension check? Direct deposit?"

Finding Anna Wu was simple. Getting her over to Ellie's without her husband the hairball was not. He still had a Jellydoughnut crush on Ellie. But Ellie managed.

"Ok, so, you want me to hack into a government database, find out where someone's pension check is deposited then hack into the bank and get the account holder information?" Anna Wu had not changed at all. Snarky, wild hair, bad attitude and all, but she'd loved Chuck Bartowski almost as much as the hairball she'd married and she'd do anything for his sister.

"Anna, Sarah was so torn up about his death she didn't know he'd made uh arrangements for her and he also had some things he wanted her to have. I never knew my brother was so fixated on death. He had a list. Any ways, she left, disappeared right after the spreading of the ashes at the beach and no one, I'm saying, no one can find her. I spent almost $3,000 trying to locate her."

"Wow, Ellie, that serious money. Ok, give me… there, got it. There are 24 Sarah Walkers in the SSAN database with her year of birth. What's her social?"

This was pissing John Casey off big-time. He'd never had to live in the civilian world and dealing with the rules and limited access when in the spyworld he just called some geek like Bartowski and had it hacked. Those days were gone. Spies had social security numbers like anyone else. No one knew what they were, though.

"Um, Anna, oh, hell, she worked for the CIA. Check those databases for Sarah only."

Give Anna Wu credit. She didn't miss a beat. "Ok, they're going to St. Ignace, Michigan. It's a flyspeck of 2,800 souls on the southern most tip of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Cool. Sits on the Straits. All she's got is a PO Box though."

"Anna, if Chuck were here he'd definitely be proud of you. Thanks, sweetie. I'll see you later. I have to box all this up and get it in the mail to Sarah. Why don't you and hairba… I mean Morgan come over for dinner next week? Call me," and Ellie shoved Anna of the door.  


* * *

Walker's lake house

Almost a year. A year without him. No crazy sandwich conversations, no all-night CoD marathons, no looking into his brown eyes and seeing the love he had for her. She could see it. Right from the start and it was why she fought so hard. She wanted to be around that love, even unacknowledged. She wanted to feel the heat, the passion she knew burned just under the surface of Chuck Bartowski. She wanted to be his soul mate. The one he shared everything with, the one she could share with. Almost a year.

Pam had said it was her best work yet. She'd just hung a beachscape of him in acrylics, of the two of them sitting on the beach in that spot, her, a three dimensional figure, him more spectral. But you could tell it was him. Because she'd painted the love she'd seen in his eyes every time she'd caught him looking at her. It always made her feel like he was hugging her. It made her feel wonderful and terrible. She hated denying him her love, denying her his love, lying to the world and just making each other miserable.

Pam had just stared at it, then at her, then back to the acrylic. There was a story here and she was going to find out what was happening.

John Casey could not believe just how cold and windy the straits were when you were on a bridge 400 feet above them in a little government approved SmartCar. He'd found Sarah Walker, well sort of. But now he needed to confront the Lesser Satan of the Government, the US Postal Service. He didn't have the time to stake out her P. O. Box. He would demand and get her physical address flashing his badge. He didn't have to, though.

John Casey was bundled up and running up the 4 steps to the St. Ignace Post Office and Sarah Walker was coming down. Kismet. They ploughed into each other and for a short time, no one spoke.

"Walker, please don't hate me. I need to talk to you. Now. It's critical and it's about Chuck."

Old habits die hard. She looked around, assessing the situation. "What do you really want, Casey? You know he's dead. You identified the body. You told me he was dead."

Casey grinned. "Hi, partner, I'm glad to see you too. If we can go someplace a wee bit less public and maybe a bit warm…"

If John Casey could have spoken he would have waxed eloquent on the pain of having one's testicles squeezed together in a mittened fist, twisted and then ripped off and handed to him. Well, OK, not ripped off but only because she needed him capable of speech. She made no guarantees.

"Sarah, please. Warmth and privacy. We can have this done in 5 minutes if you'll just put both hands in your pockets. Now this bustling metropolis is your new base, where's warm and private?"

* * *

There was the 'Last Hurrah' across the street. This late in the day it should be opening up for business. She'd never been in it but had heard it was clean, folksy and run by a real hunk who was unfortunately gay. Or if you heard the other side of the story, was a real hunk who was pining away for a lost love and only had eyes for Irish blonde singers. Again, as many versions as there were people in St. Ignace.

The barmaid at the Last Hurrah was considering rape. John Casey was the best looking thing to come into the Last Hurrah since, well, Charlie, but he was definitely hands-off. But it looked like the crazy blonde painter lady had him snared. Well that's what they called her. Crazy Painter Lady. Her work was gifted but so dark and disturbing. Her sister, Pam, owned the only Gallery in town and she'd just posted a showing of her work a couple of months back. Got written up in Grand Rapids and Milwaukee. Some sales. Most would come in the summer. She'd tried to get Charlie to escort her to the showing but he just told her bluntly "I do not date employees, I don't date at all. I'm not gay, I'm .Just. Not. Interested."

"I'm so done with all this spy shit, Casey. You said it had to do with Chuck. So talk. I have things to do."

"He's not dead. He's alive. He's always been alive but Beckman put a sanction out on him and I couldn't do it, Sarah, and I couldn't ask you to do it. So, I went to Chuck, laid it all out on the table. Everything. Together we cooked up a scenario where he got killed, you were in the clear and we'd all live happily ever after. Your reaction was critical to making the plan work. Sarah, it killed Chuck to hurt you like that but it was the only way. Him dying that way and you reacting that way, well, it saved his life. Sounds crazy but it's true. Beckman's given up. Ellie and Devon got a body, swapped some medical stuff and Chuck's FREE!"

She was stunned. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't focus. Stong arms held her upright. "Walker, don't you dare pass out on me. We don't have time for this and we can't make a scene. Chuck's still "popular" in some circles. Don't want any problems now do we?"

She looked at him, eyes welling, her chin was quivering and then one tear overflowed from the lower lid of her left eye, free fell until it struck her cheek and slid down to her jawline, and it was all over.

Chuck owned and lived in an apartment above the "Last Hurrah" and at that moment he was mulling over his most recent life. Killed by muggers. Shoved off the grid and flying under the radar learning his new cover and building a backstory. He was surprised. There was a lot more to this spy shit than he expected. Now he was approaching the anniversary of his "death". And was considering being dead for real.

He wasn't a coward. He wasn't afraid to live life unless you considered fear of loneliness being afraid.

He had no family. No social life. No prospects and no interest. The closest he'd come to a "relationship" was an unfortunate one-night stand with an Irish singer named Maire. He felt like an adulterer. It just wasn't worth it. Sarah obviously opted for the job and the excitement, and he couldn't blame her. Not anymore. He'd blamed everyone but the one who had done this to him - Chuck Bartowski.

It was time to do something about his situation or kill himself. That was the bottom line. Live or Die. He actually enjoyed his life. He just had no one to share it with. As the Chinese said, joy shared is doubled, a trouble shared is halved. Who knew that the Burbank Dragon Chinese Restaurant would have had such a monumental affect on his outlook on life.

* * *

Pam called her sister on her cell. She felt really weird about asking this but she wanted to know if she knew if the Crazy Painter Lady had been seeing Charlie Malone. "Oh, good God no Pam. She's so far out of his league. Sure, he's hot and buff, but she's exotic and mysterious. No, Pam, I would have known if Charlie had been seeing your Crazy Painter Lady. Now, I got to go. Charlie's in a pissy mood again. And I need this job so goodbye, Pam.

Sarah Walker was furious and trying to keep her voice down and her hands from gouging out John Casey's eyes. She said in a furious whisper, "Casey, please tell me he hasn't been alone, out of contact with Ellie or even you, for all this time? Please tell me you didn't take that kind, decent man and make him a fugitive without any support? Casey, you know the damned CIA doesn't even do that to seasoned agents and you've done this to Chuck? It's unforgivable."

"Well, everything would have been fine if you'd just made it six months, I'd have been in-country and we'd have a cover dinner and _then _you could have done your "I'm running away from everything to find what it is I've lost but won't know until I find it.' thing."

"You think I like the thought of the kid cut off from family and friends? He's been alone almost a year. He has not broken protocol once, not once. No contact with Ellie, Morgan or me. Nothing. It's as if he _is_ dead. And I can't make contact with him using the way you and he were going to connect. Too risky. But you can try the email and website I've been patiently emailing daily to you for almost a year. I couldn't use your email address personally because I know it's routinely monitored for 3 years after active service ends."

"So you're the phantom spammer. True Love Dot Com? Real creative there, Casey."

"Look, all you do is register with the site. Chuck checks it every day. It's his link. When he sees you, he'll make contact. It's simple but only if both parties know the link. That's the best I can do, Walker. The rest is up to you and him. I got to go. I'm due back in D.C. and moving up in the world. Take care of yourself, Sarah. Take care of Chuck. Tell him, tell him I'm sorry for all the crap I gave him. He's a hero and the government should be trying to keep him alive, not kill him."

John Casey leaned over and kissed a startled Sarah Walker on the cheek and then walked out the door to get in his government rental. They wouldn't see one another for quite a while.


	3. Following Orders, Channeling Casey

_A/N: I do not want to rush my first attempt at this syrupy sweet yech Charah so it's going to be more than 3 obviously. Yes, I've been told by a reliable source... one more chapter after this. Just one more._  


* * *

It was time for his nightly ritual.

Every night about this time he got on line and went to the contact website. He'd look at the people who'd registered in the past 24 hours and as usual he would sign off, log off and close out his connection to the internet. Every night for almost a year, the same thing, over and over, night after night, disappointment after disappointment. Well, no more.

He turned off his laptop and went down to the bar to check out his stock and the crowd. He was back in the game. He'd kept the faith for nearly a year, hoping for some response, action, reaction, but nothing. He should find a way to thank her for what she'd done. She'd given him a life.

Who was he to begrudge her the very same?

Maybe his Ms. Right was out there right now, maybe sitting in his bar, drinking his booze, listening to his music and waiting for him. Maybe. Stranger things had happened. Anything was possible.

* * *

Sarah Walker logged on to the contact website. She'd miskeyed the address twice, she was that nervous.

Finally, she selected |JOIN| and completed a membership application. Now it was up to her Chuck to do his part. Perhaps it was too late for him this evening. What time was it where he was? Was he just beginning his day, ending his day? She had no idea. And that pleased her because now, no matter what, she could always 'create' a time for their togetherness in her mind without reality intruding. They could bathe together in her mind whether he was really in Jakarta or Dallas. They would be together in her mind.

And if she was taken by a daydream while _she_ was walking on a Michigan frozen beach some evening, _they_ could be walking in the sun along Avenida de Simon Bolivar in Buenos Aires, going to the Hippodrome for lunch.

Not knowing had advantages.  


* * *

Spring  
St. Ignace, Michigan

Spring in Michigan, at least in the Straits, meant it only snowed most of the time, not all the time. The wind wasn't so strong and cold, and the lake effect snows had to compete with sundogs to blind the eye.

Sarah awoke to the crushing realization that Chuck was probably dead. For real, this time. It had been a year. Today was the anniversary of, of what? She almost thought 'widowhood'. But they weren't married. She'd never confessed her feelings for him. She'd never, ever, told him that her day started with his sunrise and ended with his sunset.

He, on the other hand, never left his feelings for her in doubt. He wore a heart-shaped sandwich board sign that proclaimed to the world, coming and going, "I love this woman, whatever her name is."

He was dead. Whether it was Fulcrum or Beckman, friend or enemy, she was sure her Chuck of the thousand smiles was dead. In spite of their wonderful plan it had all gone to hell sometime or someplace in the last year and now he was dead and she was alone.

Nothing new about that. She'd been alone since she was 4. In twenty-seven years she'd learned self-sufficiency, self-reliance and apparently she'd also picked up a smidgen of self-pity because she found herself sobbing in the shower and crying herself to sleep in a lonely spinster's bed. It had been a year. He was dead.  


* * *

"Last Hurrah, this is Charlie."

"Hey, Charlie, it's Pam." She turned to the high school girl who was helping her with a website and said to her "your error message was protocol violation?"

"Hey, Charlie, what's a 'network protocol violation'?" She had called Charlie because her sister had told her that the guy was a wizard with computers.

He only heard what she asked someone else 'message was protocol violation'. Casey had told him if he ever heard the phrase from anyone, or received it in a message, he was to drop everything and run. Fast and without delay. It meant they were on to him and the hounds were on the loose and closing in.

_"Kid, it means that anyone you know from 'now', from this spyworld, is probably going to be after you. And they've only got one intention and it ain't a good one. So you drop everything, Chuck, you drop everything and you run. You don't look back, you don't stop to think, you run."_

He hung up the phone without a word to Pam, turned to his barmaid and handed her his keys to the Last Hurrah. "It's yours now, lassie, yours to mind for me until I come back. There are papers in the floor safe behind my desk, Power of Attorney, stuff like that. The key's on the ring. You'll need them to keep the place running. I love this place, don't burn it down. And if anyone asks, this is my only release, my only freedom in life I don't know how long I'll be gone but I will be back." And because it had been so long since he'd had human contact, he kissed her, a long slow wet and deep kiss that they both knew was meant for someone else.

And when it was over, she blinked at him, mouth slightly agape and said "Wow, Charlie Malone, she must have been quite a woman you're pining for."

He ran up the back stairs to his apartment and grabbed his heavy weather gear and then a bag he'd put way in the back of his closet when he first got here.

_"Chuck, first thing you do is get your 'run bag' set up. Have one for each season or just one you change, but have one. It will save your life someday. Cash, weapon, new ID, clothes, contacts, keep it small and simple. You can't bring a 360 on the run." Casey had been deadly serious._

The tactician in him knew that St. Ignace was a mistake. Dumb but he loved this little town and it's people. It was home but a horrible trap of his own making. What the Germans called a Schwerpunkdt. A 'pinch point' or 'spear tip'. It meant he'd cut 180degrees from his escape routes. He could only go north or west. South was the bridge and east was the lake. They'd have the bridge blocked by now if they came from the South. So it was west along the lake, less populated, less chance of getting anyone else hurt if the shit hit the fan. He'd take US Route 2 west then north, following the lakeshore towards Brevort. Once he got there he'd stop and reassess the situation.

He ran to his garage, threw his bag in the backseat and fired up his jeep. It was old but it was paid for. And reliable. It was his driving in Michigan snow, the whiteouts, black ice and just plain ice that sucked. He was a California boy, the biggest hazards from weather out there was sunshine and smog. And it wasn't so frikkin' cold in California.

* * *

Sarah Walker slammed on the brakes to avoid t-boning a white jeep as it ran the red light and headed up US 2, the way she'd just come. Idiots. Michigan drivers were worse than those numbskulls in Riyadh who trusted in Allah and turned left across six lanes of traffic. They called it the 'Saudi Sweep'. You needed a broom to pick up the pieces some times. Fate was not kind to idiots.

She pulled in to Pam's Gallery lot and took out her most recent work. Another beachscape, with Chuck very introspective with just the hint of the smile she loved to put there. The one that said "maybe, just maybe".

She leaned the painting against the counter and went back to get coffee. She often came here just for company. Pam and her sister were great sources of gossip, they called it information, and she called it gossip. It had been a long time since she'd used the word 'intel' even mentally to refer to anything except a computer chip.

"Wow, Sarah, how'd you get him to sit still for so long?" Pam's sister asked. She'd unwrapped the painting and was admiring it. "He's like never still, not for a moment, always doing something. His fingers never stop twitching. You've got the look right in the eyes for once. I saw it just a while ago. The boy seriously loves someone he can't have. And, sure she's ten times the fool forever giving him away. She must have, for he never would have left on his own. Not unless her life was at stake. And now we'll never know his story."

She'd run the 100 yards to Pam's Gallery to tell her sister the news, about Charlie and about the "Last Hurrah".

"You're sure you're not making this all up? You haven't done away with him and chucked his body in the freezer to carve and serve as hamburger, did ya? He really gave you the 'Last Hurrah' and just left? Just like that? Nothing said?" said Pam.

Sarah was intently listening. Who were they talking about? No one sat for her painting. She dug it out of her memory.

"No, he just turned white when you called, hung up the phone and gave me the keys and a long lecture about where everything was and that he hoped to be back. And then he kissed me. It felt like he'd given me his soul for a wee bit of time. The man's not gay, that's for sure.

"And then he just left? Just like that? He just left in that ratty Jeep of his without another word?" Pam asked her sister.

"He said 'And if anyone asks, I felt the need for speed. This is my only release, my only freedom in life' and then he ran upstairs to his apartment, grabbed a bag and left. What did you say to him, Pam? Whatever you said freaked him out big-time and Charlie doesn't freak out about anything."

"I just asked him if he knew what a 'Network Protocol Violation' message was. Jenn kept getting one on her website and Charlie's a whiz at handling those problems."

The coffee cup hitting the hard wood floor startled the two sisters. Sarah grabbed her painting.

"Who do you think sat for this, Pam? Were those his exact words, 'this is my only release, my only freedom in life.' And what did you say to him, Pam? Your exact words." This was a new and different Sarah Walker. Gone was the waif with the haunted eyes, gone was the tentative uncertainty. No this woman was in charge and would not suffer fools gladly.

"Why, that's Charlie Malone. He bought the 'Last Hurrah' 'bout a year ago and he's been living here in St. Ignace. A nice man. But he's incomplete. And he's been hurt something fierce by someone. If you saw him, you'd know at once what I mean. He doesn't date, he's not gay. He's just not interested. The whole town knows about Charlie and Maire, the singer from the Irish band. She's the only one who ever warmed his bed, and that was just the once. And he looked guilty for months after that. You two could be sisters, y'know? Don't you think?" this to her sister who nodded her head in agreement.

Aw, shit, Chuck. You've been here the whole time, just a breath away. And now you're running because you were given the 'capture phrase'. Casey thought of everything. But he didn't know where you were. He hasn't been in touch. You've been out in the cold, alone without contact and you followed your protocols. You'd have made a great spy, Chuck, but you'll make a much better husband. And I'm coming to get you, Chuck Bartowski or Charlie Malone, and it won't matter what you name is because when I'm done with you, you won't remember it anyways.

Pam shared a look with her sister. There was a story here that would make even the lake melt.

Sarah was thinking like Chuck would. The bridge was out. They could easily trap him on it. So it was north or west. She instinctively knew he'd go west, toward California. Not that he was going there, it was just the beacon of the warmth and memories of home that would influence his choice.

"What color is Chuck's, I mean Charlie's jeep?" She remembered almost hitting the jeep on her way to the Gallery."

"It's a white Jeep Cherokee. Doesn't look like much be he's been sweet-talking his way around the speeding tickets since he got here. He's not much of a winter driver though. Don't think he'll hit 130 on US2 in this weather." She smirked. Everyone knew about Charlie and Earline Fortenberry, the Sheriff's Deputy. Earline had pulled Charlie over for excessive speeding. Really excessive. Like 70 miles per hour over the speed limit. But instead of hauling his ass into the clink she'd succumbed to those eyes and that boyish grin. She'd started unbuttoning her uniform blouse and smiling, saying she'd forget all about the ticket for an hour or so in his backseat.

The whole town had turned out for the trial. Charlie'd flipped her off, done a u-turn on US2 and blew back into town, this time staying well under triple digits. He pulled up to the sheriff's office and turned himself in and had demanded and gotten a trial that very day. The judge had admonished him to keep it below the speed of sound and fined him $10.00 plus court costs and then given Earline a lecture that only a father could give.

Sarah Walker couldn't breathe, couldn't think and was terrified she'd pee her thong. The story of Chuck and Earline had totally destroyed her ability to do much except howl with laughter until her ribs ached and she couldn't breathe.

That was so much her Chuck. And her own father. Must have been traumatic.

"So, Sarah, he's yours? Our Charlie has a home? That's good. He's been a stray far too long."

"Yes, he's mine. As for a home? It's right here. Now all I got to do is catch him. Who's got a map and wants to go for a ride? Is Earline working today?" They all grinned at that one.

"We got to stop by the 'Last Hurrah', Sarah, I got to lock it up. Don't want to get fired."

Chuck drove with steady determination. He'd loaded his M1911 and put it in his jacket pocket. The roads had been plowed and the sun had melted the remaining snow and ice and now evening was coming and with it the drop in temperature that turned wet roads into death traps.

Traffic was heavy for the first 2 or 3 miles then it began to string out as most of the 'commuters' made their ways home. There weren't many places to work in St Ignace and since it wasn't tourist season, no gawkers slowing down traffic hoping to catch sight of a family of black bears.

It was 40 miles to Brevort and most of it four lane except for a 3-lane section near some built –up villages with motels, lake front cabins and marinas and restaurants. Most were still closed for the season. It was too cold on the Great Lakes to winter in a summer cabin and even the owners sought warmer climes when old man winter brought forth his wares.

He didn't know it but he'd driven right past Sarah Walker's secluded cabin on the lake. He would have no reason to even suspect her presence here.

He ramped up the speed to 70 and would hold steady until he felt the first drifting of the rear end signifying the beginning of ice. Then he'd cut back a ways. Until then, though, speed was freedom.

It was now full dark. He was driving slowly, the black ice invisible against the macadam and he'd already spun out once. Ending up in a ditch or stranded off the road could mean a death sentence for him. He'd be easy pickings on foot.

"So, Sarah, how is it you know our Charlie so well? Were you two a couple? Married, maybe?"

To hell with it. She was retired. Time for war stories.

"I used to work for the CIA…"

And five minutes later…

"…and now when I find him I'll never let him out of my sight. Never. He's mine and I've already wasted a year of our lives and I won't waste another second. I can't believe I've been so close to him. I've been in his bar, I've drank his booze, listened to his music and never known. How ironic. But how typical of us."

The sisters were quiet. Then they started to laugh. Then one looked at the other and they chorused "BULLSHIT!" Once they settled down Pam smirked at her and said, "Now, Sarah, what's the real story? Drugs, gangs, angry husband, angry wife? It's ok, we don't judge people. "

Sarah Walker just looked upward toward heaven. "A little help here, Lord, a little help."


	4. Submission

_A/N: this is the end. Finally. yech. well, no, actually you've all been pretty nice considering I normally have her drawn and quartered emotionally by now. BTW, the reason the barmaid at the "Last Hurrah" doesn't have a name is because I promised her a cameo role. I don't own them. I'm finished. _yes, this chapter is short but I got to pick SWMNBN at the N'awlins airport. She's finally come to her senses.

~Armor-Plated-Rat~

* * *

Chuck looked in the rear view mirror. Headlights, gaining steadily about 3 miles back. This was a long straight stretch. He killed his own lights and was slowing down, no gas and no brake, preparing to flow off the road at one of the secondary roadways that wasn't plowed. Less chance of being noticed if he used a well-rutted one.

The back tires of the Jeep hit the black ice and lost all purchase. The torque of the engine twisted the Jeep's path and it turned to the left, across the lanes and toward the lakeshore. Chuck tried to steer and dropped the Jeep into a lower gear trying to grab some traction once the front wheels hit the snow after he broke through the berm of plowed snow that had accumulated over the winter. Unfortunately for Chuck it had the consistency of ferroconcrete and the front of the Jeep crumpled like a Styrofoam cup.

He didn't really lose consciousness it's just that when an airbag deploys, it does tend to knock the crap out of you and shocks you into inactivity. He couldn't tell you how long he'd been sitting there. The best laid plans of mice and men and all that poetic crap aside he knew his ass was in a crack. His only advantages had been speed and deception. His driving days were over for a bit. With speed down for the count that left deception.

It was Pam who saw Charlie's wrecked Jeep. "There, there's Charlie's Jeep. He must have hit a patch of ice, crossed the lanes and slammed into the berm. He could be hurt, Sarah, turn over there."

Sarah was a much better Alpine driver that Chuck could ever hope to be. With skill and grace of many hours' practice, she eased across the lanes and pulled up beside the Jeep and reached across the lap of her passenger and popped open the glove box. She pulled out her Glock .40 and jacked a round into the chamber. Pam looked like she was going to pee her pantaloons.

In the coldest voice Pam had ever heard from her friend Sarah aka 'Crazy Painter Lady', she said, "I wasn't kidding about any of it. Stay in the car." The irony of those words.

She moved over the ice like a dancer, coming around behind the vehicle and opening the passenger door. Just as she'd suspected, he was gone. She froze as she heard the snick of the safety being released.

"So, it's going to be you, huh? Casey didn't think you'd be able to do it but obviously he was wrong."

She started to turn around but the muzzle of his pistol jabbed in her neck stopped her. Then it was gone, followed by the snick of a reengaged safety.

He tossed the pistol onto the front seat of the Jeep.

"You seem quite capable of far more than anyone would believe, Sarah. Still, if it's got to be someone, I'm glad it's not a stranger. Tell Pam that I gave "Last Hurrah" to her sister. It's legit. All the paper work is done. Tell her I said…"

"You talk too much, Charlie, we're going to have to work on that." She tossed her Glock beside his on the front seat and turned, putting her arms around his neck and whispering "Hello, Charlie, I'm Sarah."

The first kiss was slow and brief. Not as intense as the movies would have filmed it. No frantic kisses, slurpy noises, constant breaking and rekissing, sucking faces and dueling tongues.

Nope, the first kiss was more a greeting between old friends. An exchange of hello's from travelers long apart, unsure if they were still welcome in each others' arms. It was tender and tentative for much time had passed and each had changed in ways unknown to the other.

He broke the kiss and stared at her. A single tear was balanced on her eyelid and he brushed it away with the back of a finger tip.

"Chuck, Charlie, hell, Casey tracked me down finally yesterday. I retired and left the CIA and he couldn't find me. I didn't know about the plan, Chuck, I'm so sorry. You've been alone out here in the cold but you've done so well. I logged on to the web site for the first time last night. I registered but didn't see you. I'm so sorry, baby, I've missed you and I've been so alone." The words rushed out, still with meaningful sounds but it was the emotion they conveyed that swayed him.

The kiss this time was different. Like old friends comfortable in their skins, there was no need for pretext. His tongue touched her lips in invitation and she opened her mouth enough that hers could touch his in time- honored greeting. She moaned a question and he sighed an answer.

"How about we head back to town, return these would-be rescuers to their warm abodes and then you close up the bar and we can talk in the warmth and comfort of a nice warm bed. There's so much to tell you and I want to hear about every second of your life here. But what's really important is that we maintain our cover in front of these people.

She knew the minute she said it that it was the wrong thing to say. She knew he'd misinterpret it. He was living out here on the edge and he'd become sharp as knives. He hadn't survived the last year being less than superlative. Hunter became prey again. She measured the distance from her hand to her gun. She hadn't reset the safety, so advantage Walker. He didn't have to turn around but he did have to lever the safety to fire.

His sigh conveyed an incredible amount of data for something so brief and transient. Betrayal, hurt, frustration, anger, despair and finally, resignation. All in a sound that lasted less than 3 seconds.

"Just do it, Sarah, just get it over with. No more lies, deception, or betrayal, end it, Agent Walker and take the girls home, unharmed. They're innocents and you can always come up with a story to explain why you had to terminate an escaped prisoner, dangerous terrorist, infected mental patient or a serial killer." He dropped to his knees on the frozen road and stared at the ground. He heard a sound, a sob, and then Sarah fell to her knees, threw her arms around him and sobbed into his parka as if the entire world had just ended and it was her fault. For her world had ended and it was her fault.

"Oh, Chuck, I meant to protect your cover. You can't be Chuck Bartowski again. You're someone else now and I lost Chuck Bartowski but I've found Charlie Malone and I'll never let him go. He's all I want in this world and all I'll ever need. So please, take me to town, close the bar, take me to bed and make love to me until the world ends, Charlie Malone. I love you."

* * *

Epilogue of Sorts

From the Strait Times, July 4, 2010

Local artist and club owner marry. A private wedding ceremony was conducted at the home of local gallery owner Pamela Cross. There were no details reported although it had been noted that several of the guests were in military attire, that one female guest was reported to have exploded with joy and that several Gulfstream aircraft in the livery of the United States Air Force were seen arriving and departing with various dignitaries.

The bride is new to the community but has already made a name for herself in the art world. Every one of her paintings was purchased by an anonymous and eccentric collector who refuses to share the work with the world. The groom owns "Last Hurrah" and is well known to locals as the man who tamed Earline Fortenberry and ended her predations on hapless male speeders traveling on US2 toward Brevort.

The couple has no intention of relocating and planned on a honeymoon in the apartment above the "Last Hurrah. So if the bar is rockin' don't go knockin'

**_Yech… sweet enough?_**


End file.
